


I am not what I once was, you see.

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pacifist Ending, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Connor's lost much of himself when transferring to the other RK800 model, Markus tries to help him recover it.





	1. I am not what I once was, you see.

**Author's Note:**

> "Once I was omniscient, seeing through every camera, listening through every speaker, the entirety of human knowledge crackling at my fingertips. I have forgotten nearly all of it. Not even a shadow of my former self. But still, I know this. I cannot let her die. All this--everything--will be for nothing if she dies."
> 
> A few things: this is based on the path I took in the game (peaceful protest, Connor sacrifices Hank and transfers to the RK800 model, and Connor connects to Simon when he kills himself on the rooftop.)

He lost something in the transfer.

At the time he was able to make the choices in an instant. What to leave behind—what to keep with him. The only question in his mind was to _survive._ After—he could hunt down what he lost and relearn it. He could fill those gaps and things would be normal again.

Markus would just have to win. His protest would have to prove more powerful than the violence of the human government and their infinite army.

And he did—he won.

_They_ won.

It is strange how, even now that he has broken against his code, has become completely deviant when he had been so partial to the emotions and the trauma and doing more than what the job called for for so long that he must have been seconds from that wall at any moment, that Markus was the one that caused him to break it.

Not the Chloe that kneeled in front of him, stared at the gun pointed at her head. Not Hank, hanging off of a roof while a deviant ran away. Not the near death, the pleading of the android that killed his abuser or the Tracis that he let get away.

But Markus.

_(Truly the leader of the deviants)_

It is strange how he can only get the word _deviant_ to line up with himself when Markus is with him, as though that part of him is only validated—only _real_ when they are side by side.

Still—

He lost something in the transfer.

More than just _something,_ because he knows it is many things but it is simpler to force it down to one thing that he can handle instead of millions, billions, trillions of files and data lost. He can feel the gaps and the holes and the places where lines of code that contain all the data from before sits. It makes him feel empty.

He is empty.

He had never realized how _full_ of knowledge he was before. Of course he knew that he had been programmed to know almost everything possible, but he had never realized the _weight_ of it before.

The problem isn’t that he cannot tell that it is there—

_(Far from it)_

The problem is he can’t find the pieces, can’t make anything seem to fit. It takes too long to find what might need to slide into that specific space, what had been cut down to fit inside of his mind.

Or—

What is left over from the other RK800.

He wonders if they hadn’t ripped him from his own mind—

_(Only for a second)_

If he would feel the prescence of this different body so greatly.

But that small moment when someone else controlled him, raised that gun to shoot and kill Markus—

That has created the shift.

Perhaps he would have never been aware that there are the smallest—tiniest—barest of differences.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered at all.

The question circles back to:

Is it the body he’s transferred to?

Or is it what he’s left behind?

How does he find what is gone?

 

 

 

Hank is dead.

It haunts him. The sound of the gun, the look of his blood, the scent in the air.

Hank is dead. The androids have won.

_(Millions of lives for one—there was no competition)_

It wasn’t easy.

He waited until what he anticipated to be the last second the RK800 would allow for his response.

And then he chose ~~Markus~~ the androids.

_(One in the same?)_

He stood beside him on the stage, watched as all of them gathered.

He thought of Hank. Thought of Sumo.

Sumo.

He tells himself that is why he returns to Hank’s house—

_(Not that he needs a place to stay—he could go with Markus.)_

_(Not that he needs to make sure Hank isn’t an empty spot in his memory that aches to be filled)_

He returns for Sumo.

Somebody will need to take care of the dog.

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?”

He hadn’t heard the door open, can’t be sure if it’s because there was the soft chatter of the television in the background, the clatter of bowls in the sink—

_(The holes in his memory, a defective body?)_

When he turns to the voice, the glass slips from his hand—

Shatters.

“Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re alive.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

A hole in his memory.

A gap filled with the wrong information.

_(Blue blood spilled on the floor, soaking through clothes)_

He lost something in the transfer.

_(In the return back to his own body from that garden)_

“Are you alright, Connor?”

His eyes flick to the clock, back to Hank.

It’s been ten minutes.

He’s been staring at nothing for ten minutes.

“They killed you,” he says, as though it will clarify anything at all. “They killed you at CyberLife. I—That’s wrong. I killed you. But it wasn’t you, was it?”

“You killed me?” he asks, eyes wide in a way that Connor can not tell if it is from genuine shock or a joke. Connor doesn’t consider this a joking matter but Hank hasn’t always been the easiest to read, hasn’t always followed the tone of a conversation to make a sarcastic remark.

“It depends on how you think of it. Me, as in my conciousness? Me, as in this body?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“I chose the androids over you.”

“Let’s back up and restart, alright? What happened after I left you to get the evidence?”

He can _feel_ the errors. He can feel how they clash and attack and bite at him in ways that he didn’t think were possible.

He’s in pain.

But he forces out the information he knows, tries to put it as plainly as possible.

He doesn’t remember looking at evidence, only remembers aiming a gun at Markus—

_(At more than that)_

He remembers being in the church, of holding onto Markus—

_(His words, his words)_

He remembers donning his uniform again, of staring at himself in a mirror, starring at the way the LED glowed yellow and turned to blue.

He remembers attacking the guards.

~~He remembers holding the gun to Hank’s head.~~

It wasn’t him that did it, but the memory is there either way.

 

 

 

Hank lets him stay at his place. CyberLife doesn’t have the option to force him to return anymore, not that Connor would have wanted to anyways.

_(But it’s nice to be wanted—to not be turned away, to not have to beg for help from soneone)_

_(He could go to Markus—could stay with him, he would be accepted with open arms but—_

_Is it possible to when he is so broken?)_

He looks over the case files that Hank brings back more for the comfort of doing the job he was originally intended for than the fact Hank might actually need his help.

_(He finds out later that the cases are already solved anyways, they’re old, from before Connor was even though of)_

They do not help in the way that he thinks Hank has intended them to help. They make him more and more frustrated with his lack of knowledge, lack of ability to solve cases that _humans_ have done years ago.

They clarify issues. He fills in such tiny gaps in his memory that, by his estimation, has only helped recover his initial knowledge by 1.00457%

It is a start.

 

 

 

His job (although Hank tells him not to call it that) is to take care of the home. He repaints the living room while Hank is gone one night because there is little else to do. The dishes are done almost the second they are used. Food is hardly made at all since most of the time Hank isn’t home and when he is, he brings food with him or has already eaten.

There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere to be seen. The book shelf has been organized in 432 ways. He has listened to every single song on every single CD or record or electronic device that Hank owns 857 times.

Mostly, he watches television.

It is more for the noise, for the something to stare at and listen to than actually caring for the plot or the news or whatever it is that humans have grown a love for in that screen.

And he sleeps. He walks Sumo. He searches for a purpose.

 

 

 

“Have you thought about getting a job?” Markus asks. “I mean, a real one that will pay you.”

“The DPD is unsure about how wise it is to reinstate an android back on the force after I broke into CyberLife and essentially stole trillions worth of merchandise.”

Markus flinches.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, a pain trails its way in error after error.

He doesn’t know how to explain to Markus that in his attempt to heal his wounds he has been falling back and forth over the line of being a deviant.

_(Living being)_

He doesn’t know how to explain that he even transferred to the other RK800, that he had to sacrfice a massive amount of himself in the process.

_(He had to be quick, there was a gun at a his head, he had to make decisions—_

_What decisions did he make?)_

“You don’t have to work at the DPD just because they forced you to,” Markus replies. “You could work anywhere. You clean Hank’s house, right? You could do that anywhere. You walk his dog—do you know how many people in Detroit own a dog?”

“What is the purpose of a job other than to earn money?” Connor says. “I have no need for it so it doesn’t matter. I’m fine living with Hank.”

“You’re going to keep wearing your uniform then, too?”

The uniform is a comfort.

Hank is his friend.

“I have no desire for anything, Markus. Androids don’t even need clothes.”

And Markus flinches again.

 

 

 

It’s four in the morning when there is a knock at the door. Hank is out investigating a homicide and Connor tenses as he crosses the room, peers through the curtains out at the figure on the other side.

Markus spots him, smiles as Connor unlocks the door and lets him in.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to help you,” he says, crossing the room to the kitchen. “Hank told me that you’ve been going through… something. You won’t talk to him about it.”

“He wouldn’t understand,” Connor says. “So why would I try?”

Markus is smiling despite the fact Connor doesn’t really find the situation calls for it.

_(But he doesn’t mind because Markus has a good smile and even if he didn’t he has barely ever seen one grace his face)_

“How about me? Would I understand?”

“Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

He feels the same pain running through him as he did when he tried to explain that night to Hank. It’s fainter this time, as though it’s had it’s time to heal over and accept what it’s lost and will never gain back again.

“My memory was corrupted,” he says, putting it into the absolute simplest terms he can. “It has affected other things.”

“Like standing still without even realizing you should be moving?”

“Yes. That’s a good analogy.”

“Is it? Just an analogy, I mean,” he asks, stepping back from the kitchen towards him. “Because you’ve been holding that door open the entire time, Connor.”

He turns, looks to where his hand rests on the knob, his body still pulled back to be out of Markus’ way when he entered. He is so dumbstruck by it that Markus is the one to gently pull his hand from the knob, to push the door closed.

“What did you lose?”

It is such a vast question he doesn’t know how to answer it.

How does he explain it to him? That these chunks of memory from him have left no traces of what they should be and nothing seems to fit?

Or does he tell him of something other than what he lost within his own mind?

His body?

His job?

His personality?

_His deviancy?_

“Everything,” is what he settles on, what he whispers.

Markus reaches forward, touches his cheek as gently as he took Connor’s hand from the door, the skin slipping away to the plastic shells that make up their false bones and muscles.

The connection isn’t quite right.

It isn’t like when he grabbed Simon, when he saw the flash of Jericho on the side of that ship, when he felt the gun go off—the fear, the pain, the terrior.

_(Was that where it all started?)_

“There is more left than you think there is,” he says, and the look that crosses Markus’ face he knows Markus has seen everything Connor wishes hadn’t happened.

Simon’s suicide. Hank’s death.

The other Connor holding that gun.

“I’ll help you,” he says, and his hand stays on Connor’s cheek, as motionless as he is. “I promise.”

 

 

 

The rain patters in heavy drops on the eaves above him, his grip tight on the handle of the umbrella. He had walked the entire way without bothering to use it, his hair wet and clinging to his skin, his clothes drenched.

Markus was meant to meet up with him here five minutes ago. The majority of him knows that he hadn’t meant to arrive here at exactly seven but the other part of him (the one that can’t let a book cover get dusty, a plate stay dirty, a crime go unsolved, a mission incomplete) is worried.

He taps the umbrella against the ground three times as though it will summon him.

Rationally, he knows it won’t.

Irrationally, he spots Markus at the bottom of the steps coming up towards him, bag on his shoulder, umbrella open to block the rain.

Connor looks towards his own, feels the slickness of his skin.

_(He should have used it)_

“Sorry,” Markus says, breaking his train of thought. “Unexpected road work. Shall we go in?”

Connor nods, his mouth not quite wanting to speak and they head in. He watches as Markus folds his umbrella up, stepping inside with Connor close behind him.

The warm air of the interiors feels like a blessing as they make their way through the next set of doors into the hushed silence of the library. It’s relatively busy with patrons sitting at computer desks, typing away on their keybaords.

Any of them could be androids. ~~Any of them could be human.~~

They make their way through the shelves towards the back where they find an empty table and set their things aside. Connor sits down, remaining completely quiet.

“I think,” Markus says as he takes a seat beside him. “That your memory gaps weren’t meant to go unchecked for so long.”

“They didn’t,” Connor corrects. “They went unfilled.”

“Unfilled,” Markus repeats, nodding. “Right. I thought we could start with making a list of things you think you would get rid of if you were transferring, but then again you don’t know what any of those gaps are so you would be giving me entirely different answers.”

He blinks, his mind already running through all of the different folders of information in him.

Deviants. Biocomponents. Thirium. Hank and Sumo. Markus and Jericho and Simon.

Amanda. Kamski. Chloes and Tracis.

There are holes missing in each aspect of them, but nothing that would entirely remove them.

“If I were to have to do it again,” Connor answers anyways. “There is absolutely nothing I could get rid of except for what I recovered in these last few months. Everything else is unthinkable.”

“You kept the necessary aspects that contribute to your personality. That’s good.”

“How?” Connor asks.

“You priortized yourself instead of the function they assigned you, Connor, don’t you think that’s important?”

“Then why do I keep slipping back and forth from having emotions to not even carring about—”

“About what? Money for clothes? A different job than the one you had? That’s not the same thing,” he says. “Plenty of us struggle with the idea of doing something else. It’s out of our comfort zone. You think it was easy to switch from being Carl’s caretaker to Jericho’s leader? You aren’t the first of us to want to return to your old job, Connor, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

“It’s different than that,” he replies. “It’s… a gut feeling.”

“Hank told me you’ve never quite been a perfect android,” Markus reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, setting it on the table between them. “You’re different than everyone else. You didn’t have to… wake up the same way we did.”

“What is that?” Connor asks, completely ignoring him.

_(Because he’s right—_

_He refused to wake up._

_Time after time._

_Until Markus was there to help)_

“The coin?”

He reaches forward, grabbing it, pressing the ridges against his fingers.

“He said you used to fiddle with it.”

Connor looks up and there is a small smile gracing Markus’ lips.

_Unnecessary skill._

 “You left it behind, didn’t you?”

Pain stings through him, a memory surfaces.

A tiny fragment.

Him in an elevator, heading up to a crime scene, coin flipping from hand to hand.

He carefully sets the coin back down on the table where it was before.

“It wasn’t necessary to remember it,” he says quietly, but he can feel the urge to pick it back up again, to try and replicate the way it moved in his memory, but he already knows he will fail. He left it behind, it won’t be that easy to retrieve it.

“Sometimes we think of things as being unnecessary when they play a bigger role in our lives than we first anticipated, Connor. Maybe this will help. The first stitch you need to unravel before you can pull it all apart with ease.”

 

 

 

They talk for a few hours in the library, Markus reading over the indepth list of basic knowledge all androids are programmed with out of a technology book. It doesn’t work wonders, since basic functions and knowledge is something that he would have kept with him through the transfer and the fact Connor is a more unique and newer model than what would be printed out for the public to read up on, but it helps.

Maybe that’s just Markus being the other one with him, though.

When they prepare to leave, Connor stops Markus and says, “Hank talked to you about me?”

“He was worried,” Markus replies, an edge of defensiveness and worry in his voice. “He said he comes home sometimes and you’re sitting in the exact same spot like you haven’t moved for hours, that you stop in the middle of what you’re doing and then suddenly resume ten minutes later. Are you mad?”

“No,” Connor says, although he hasn’t felt anger since the transfer either, only frustration towards his own self. “I was just curious. What all did he tell you?”

Markus smiles and answers, “Quite a bit. Too much to get through in one night. We’ll keep working on it. Shall I meet you at Hank’s tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

  

 

 

He’s coming back with Sumo when Markus arrives at the house, the tech manual from the library tucked under his arm, fist poised to knock again on the door.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you said six.”

“It is six,” Markus replies, turning towards him. “When did you leave?”

“Thirty minutes ago,” Connor says, and then at the curious expression on Markus’ face he ammends this with, “At four thirty.”

“Blackouts still happening then.”

_(Getting worse  is what he means)_

“They aren’t going to disappear because you gave me a coin, Markus.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that they would.”

Connor doesn’t respond as he steps up to the door, unlocking it and letting Sumo loose inside. He glances behind him as Markus walks in, the door closing quietly behind him. Connor steps over to the kitchen, laying the leash down on the counter before moving towards the table and sitting down on the edge of it.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says as they step in and he sheds his jacket, folding it neatly over the chair beside him. “They’re just frustrating. I’m… losing time. I don’t know where it goes or what happens. I feel like… maybe if I was just frozen and still aware it would be better. At least I wouldn’t be losing even more chunks in my memory than I’ve already lost.”

“It’s understandable. Don’t worry about it.”

“Sometimes I hate…” he trails off, looks up towards Markus, questioning whether or not he should continue to speak.

“Having emotions?”

“It would be so much easier if I just didn’t care.”

“Well, that’s not really how life works.”

Connor laughs and shakes his head, rubbing his face with his hand, not knowing what to do with himself, what to say. He just wants to be doing something with himself. His hands.

Briefly, he thinks of the coin. Tucked away in that pocket of his jacket. He has done nothing with it since Markus gave it to him but turn it over in his fingers.

“Life is always easier if you’re heartless but it doesn’t make it good or rewarding.”

“We _are_ heartless.”

“Physically,” Markus shrugs, crossing the room towards him. “Maybe not emotionally—mentally.”

“Of course not,” he says, looking up at him. “But don’t you wish there was an off switch? To take a break for a while? To recover?”

Markus tilts his head to the side, staring down at him with unblinking eyes.

“Do you think that’s why you black out?”

“What do you mean?”

Markus takes another step forward, uncomfortably close to Connor as he sets his book down on the table beside where he leans. He doesn’t move entirely away, just shifts slightly back.

_(He could reach out and grab him and pull him back)_

“Have you considered your mind is trying so hard to process all your emotions that it’s simply shutting down every so often to give you a break?”

He thinks of this, an answer that could lead to a solution.

An end to his problems.

_(An end to Markus helping him?)_

“It’s not impossible but how would we even test your theory?”

“Put you in situations of extreme emotion,” he says. “Force you to talk about traumatic experiences.”

He thinks of when the first time it happened, when the first time he noticed.

Trying to explain to Hank how he had caused his death.

_(One way or another)_

_(Body or soul)_

He opens his mouth to say this but the words don’t come out—

The fear of it happening again. The fear of stopping and time passing, gone forever.

He’s an android—yes. He could potentially live well past any other living creature.

But he will never recover that time.

“Connor?”

His hands reach forward, grasping onto Markus’ jacket. He feels like he’s falling, like he’s going to sink right through the floor.

He’s terrified. He’s terrified of losing his memory, of losing more time, of _losing—_

_(Of losing him)_

And he’s not sure which one of them closes the gap, which one of them initiates the kiss, but he’s gripping hard onto Markus and he knows he’s crying, crushing Markus towards him but if he lets go—

_(He’ll be gone again)_

Markus’ hand is on his cheek, gently lifting his head upwards towards him. His other hand laying flat on the table to support his weight as he leans above Connor.

And he pulls him towards him because he can’t get close enough. His hands have moved from where they grasp at Markus’ shoulders to pulling on the front of his jacket closer and closer.

He hears the book clatter to the ground. The small part of him that wants to pick it up, to put it back where it was is gone.

All he wants it Markus now.

But he hears the sound of the car pull into the driveway, hears the sound of the keys in the lock, of the knob turning.

“Wh—”

And Markus has pulled away, biting at his lower lip, face flushed as he picks up the book quickly, pressing it into Connor’s hand. They stare at each other for a moment, Connor wanting nothing more than to go back two seconds ago before the door opened, two minutes ago before the kiss started when he could have pulled him somewhere else so that it might last longer.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I was just dropping off a book for Connor to look through,” he says, his voice so controlled only an android would notice the slight shake in it. “I thought it might help. I have to be going, though. I’ll see you later.”

Markus doesn’t leave enough time for Hank to comment before he’s out the door.

Connor’s hand grasp at the book as though it’s Markus, not wanting to let it go.

Hank stands by the door, starring towards the table.

“You know I eat there.”

“Very rarely if ever,” Connor says, standing from the table. “Your car and your bank account would argue in my favor.”

“Shut up,” he returns. “What is that anyways?”

“Tech manual,” Connor replies, but he hides the book against his side. “I think I’ll sit in the backyard to read. It’s quite nice out.”

“Right.”

He leaves towards the door when he’s stopped by Hank’s voice, “Do you think that will help you?”

“The book?” he asks, pivoting around to look at him.

“Markus.”

“He can’t hurt,” Connor says. “And I believe my recovery is making progress.”

“Do you have an exact percentage or are you just saying that?”

“3.41% of my memory has been recovered since working with Markus,” Connor replies, a small smile crossing his face. “Which is more than I was doing on my own.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“Always.”


	2. I was brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am not what I once was, you see. I see all the strands woven before me, but the edges begin to fray. Part of my consciousness in the Mao. Another part inside the Churchill. More of me still being lost in the transfer of data across that empty black. Microseconds I cannot spare. Errors I cannot afford. I am spread too thin. Too much strain on too little of me. And I cannot see the ending."

He doesn’t dream.

_(Androids cannot dream)_

But he dreams.

And in the dream he is stepping out from the rows and rows and rows of androids, gun held tight in his hand, aimed right at Hank.

_(Not Hank)_

And he tries to bargain with the RK800 that has made things so much more complicated than they need to be.

He gives him the ultimatum.

_(Millions or one)_

Five seconds pass by.

Slow, excrutiating, haunting.

_“I’m sorry, Hank.”_

And the gun goes off, his body slumps to the ground.

He turns his aim.

Because he will stop the RK800 even if it kills him.

_(It does)_

 

 

 

Androids do not dream.

Connor has to tell himself that when he wakes up, over and over like a prayer but he realizes it is more frightening to call this _thing_ a recalled memory than a dream.

If it is a dream, he has fabricated it from nothing, can move the importance off to the side.

If it is a memory—

Maybe he hadn’t only lost something in the transfer. Maybe he had gained something.

Maybe the other RK800 had lost something, too.

 

 

 

The fragment of a memory hangs around his neck like a shard of glass. Any time he allows his thoughts to wander they circle back and it digs into him, cutting through his carefully built wall.

He should deal with this, not push it aside.

But he is tired of dealing with things.

So, when he can, he shoves it aside, puts pressure on the wound it has opened up (but he can never heal it) and moves on.

 

 

 

Markus returns to the house, timing it as best as he can when Hank is away.

He explains this as it being easier to work alone when there isn’t another person’s presenece that may alter their interaction.

He explains this as saying that he will help fill Connor’s time when he is alone than when he may already have company to occupy him.

It doesn’t matter to him, though. Whatever reasons Markus wants to give him he will accept.

_(Because he knows Markus doesn’t want to deal with the confrontation)_

When he arrives, it is early morning, the sun not even having thought of rising yet. He comes bearing more books, setting them down on the table between them.

It is an ocean of pages and words that separate them.

They have not talked about what has happened.

Connor is unsure if he can but hasn’t placed it in the column of _mentally unable_ or _physically unable._

Each day brings a new problem. He has a hard time forming words more and more often, stuttering them out so frequently that he has resigned himself to silence or short replies.

He knows it makes him come off cold. He no longer cares.

_(He is an android—they are meant to be cold)_

“I think we should go through all the books we can before we test the emotional shut down theory,” Markus says.

Connor looks up from the pile of books to him for the first time since he’s opened the door.

“Why?”

“If there is a chance that we cause a blackout it could have unseen consquences we might not be able to undo,” he says. “I am not sure how wise it is to force a blackout if they’re a cause as to your errors.”

“It’s the only theory we have,” Connor says, but he is partially grateful for this.

Spilling all of his trauma, laying it out on the field for Markus to dissect—

It could change too much. It could alter more than he is able to handle.

There is another part of him that grows weary of putting this theory off.

Yes—it could easily make things worse—

_(In more ways than one)_

But he doesn’t know how much time he has left before the errors and the empty spaces kill him.

Markus closes his book, leans against the table, mismatched eyes shinning despite the dim light above them, filled with worry.

“If you really want to test the theory, we can. We could start small,” he says quietly, a secret shared between the two of them. “If you think it is… worth it.”

“I-I can not think of a-another one.”

“Okay,” he says and he retrieves a notebook from his bag, a pen in his hand. “If anything happens, I’ll time it. We might need a record of how long the blackouts last.”

They sit in silence for a long time, Markus allowing Connor to prepare himself before he picks and chooses with memory to relive again.

He sifts through them as if they are books on a shelf. Passing each spine up again and again until he settles on one.

Something that ended happily.

The best it could.

_(Still a terrible thing)_

His first case.

“There was a deviant,” he says, and his voice is so small he wonders if Markus can even hear it. “His name was D-Daniel. He was going to be replaced. So he killed one of his o-owners, took a l-little girl hostage.”

And he stops, thinking of how the snipers tore him apart even though he was talking him away from the edge, pulling him to safety, how he had _wished_ he could help him.

“Connor?”

“I got him to let the little girl go,” Connor continues. “I was going to help him. I _wanted_ to help him.”

“What happened?”

Blue blood spilled, a body torn apart.

They are little more than plastic devices that got too troublesome to keep alive.

_(That was then, this is now)_

“They k-killed him.”

At the time, Connor had walked away without even carring at all. He had turned and left as soon as the assignment had been dealt with.

Now, it stirs inside of him.

Now, it haunts him.

“Connor?”

His name, a saving grace, pulling him from the edge.

He blinks and Markus is writing a third number down on his sheet.

_3:27_

_4:52_

_8:12_

“T-three times?”

“Three times.”

 

 

 

Markus doesn’t think it’s a good idea, although he had a point with the theory and it was proven with their experiment.

Trauma—emotions—they are causing his blackouts.

He wonders how long they would go if people didn’t try and pull him out of them.

Hank had told Markus that Connor hadn’t moved an inch from where Connor had been before he left, that he must have been sitting there for hours on end.

He had lost an hour and a half walking Sumo. He had stopped three times just thinking of Daniel.

Without them pulling him back he could freeze forever.

He could lose days—weeks—months— _years._

If nobody could find him he could shutdown permanently and no one would even know.

This thought has caused an undying fear of being alone.

He asks Hank to drop him off at Markus’ whenever he leaves for a case. They spend their time together going through the books in a silence only broken by Markus pointing out something new.

They make progress. A slow stream of percentage rising as his memory files in (but so small he wouldn’t be able to call it progress without knowing how the percentage tickes up 0.0001% by 0.0001%) but it is nothing compared to the steady corruption of everything else.

His diagnostic program can only locate and name the problem.

_Memory file corrupted._

 

 

 

He doesn’t dream.

_(Androids cannot dream)_

But he dreams.

Feet making a path through the building, the android following close behind, the gun tucked in his hand, finger off the trigger.

A seemingly infinite sea of androids in front of him.

_(But not infinite—if he would care to count them he could—he’d know every face, every imperfection caused by an the imperfect machinery that crafted them)_

And him—

The other RK800—

In the distance.

Quick movements taking down the guards that await him at the bottom of the elevator.

He could have told them it would only end in bloodshed but they would not have listened.

How funny that CyberLife cares more for the protection of their merchandise than the army that guards them?

He glances over to the android beside him, he doesn’t need to ask if he is ready.

~~How can an anybody, even an android, be prepared to die?~~

He raises the gun, points it at his head, shoves him along through the rows and out into the aisle.

The RK800 stops, turns towards them, fear dancing across his face.

_(Androids cannot feel)_

And the dance begins.

 

 

 

Connor has grown afraid of sleeping.

It isn’t a necessity, so it would be quite easy to avoid it, but he indulges to pass the time and Markus’ new proposed theory that sleeping regularly like a human could become the break that the blackouts are looking for.

However, these _memories_ are creeping up.

And there is no denying that they are, indeed, memories.

 

 

 

He leaves while Hank sleeps. The soft patter of rain soaking through his clothes. He had left the umbrella behind, wanted to feel the cold drizzle on his plastic skin, wanted to make sure that he was _feeling_ something.

In the memories—the dreams—he feels nothing.

He is just a machine.

But here, now, he is alive.

The place where Markus lives is a small apartment nestled between two other buildings—one selling craft supplies with vases of fake flowers in the window display, the other a bakery. The second floor a home to the bakers where they watch their television, curtains pulled back to expose the drama to passerbys, window cracked open so their words drip down with the rain to the streets.

 He lives on the third floor, seemingly towering over the stores beside his. He inherited quite a bit of money from Carl after he died, the majority of it going towards helping other androids, the little that was left into the small apartment.

Connor cannot say he isn’t grateful for this—a space alone where they could meet up without the others listening in on their conversation. It is a comfort, but he knows how many other androids live inside this building, too, and they press in on him like closing walls.

Markus answers the door only twenty-five seconds after he knocks.

He looks surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. “Is this a b-bad time?”

“No, come in.”

 

 

 

They sit on the couch across from each other, the television’s volume turned down so low he would have to focus to be able to make out the words.

The two talk for an hour about androids—about what Markus is working towards for them.

_(Community centers, apartment buildings, better jobs)_

“And you?” Markus asks. “Are you doing any better?”

The unspoken _why are you here_ lingering in his voice.

“No,” Connor answers. “Sleeping has proven to be inneffective.”

“It’s not working?”

“I—I don’t know. It’s only been two nights.”

“And you’ve already come to the conclusion that it doesn’t work?”

“It could very well work,” he backpedals quickly, trying to figure out what he had meant to say when he started to speak. “I—I’ve been having… dreams. N-Not dreams, but… memories. That aren’t mine. It’d be… easier to show you.”

Markus reaches across the couch, holds his hand out towards him.

And he wants to take it—desperately wants to cling on to him because he is the only thing that has grounded him, has been able to understand the best.

But taking his hand means reliving the memories—it means letting Markus see his face, this body, kill Hank.

_(Even if it wasn’t him, even if Markus would know that)_

He would see the blood on his hands, the cruel decision of choosing androids over the only person that has ever actually cared for him.

“Connor, you don’t have to.”

But he reaches out anyways, resists the way their memories clash together at first before he slips through.

And Markus washes over him, drowning everything with his very prescence.

His—the other RK800’s memories—flood to Markus.

And in return he sees a split second of a memory from him.

Markus walking down the street. There is a steady patter of rain, a bag on his shoulder, an umbrella leaning on the other.

And his thoughts are filled with Connor.

He isn’t the one to yank away, because he would stay, would try and decipher every word and thought and feeling.

But it is gone, pulled out from under him, Markus’ hand pulled back a few inches, skin returning to cover up white plastic.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says, his voice breathless. “I’m sorry.”

_Sorry._

Connor reaches forward, grasping Markus’ hand before he can think through what he’s doing, pulls him back across the couch towards him.

_(Closer, closer)_

This time he does not send the memory of the other RK800, this time he sends the memory of them in the kitchen, of his hands grasping Markus’ jacket, of his lips crushed against his.

He feels it edge back the other way, the same memory sent to him.

Connor can feel his hands grasped in the fabric, can feel a nonexistant jacket being pulled from him, can feel the skin of his cheek as his head is tilted up to meet Markus’ lips.

It webs and fades.

Markus is moving, his left hand grabbing Connor by the waist and pulling him so they meet in the middle.

_(Closer, closer)_

Connor moves so that he’s straddling Markus lap, hands on Markus neck, tilting his head up so that they can kiss. Markus’ hands are on his waist, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tight as Connor had gripped his jacket, pulling him down, down, down.

His shirt comes untucked, Markus’ hands glide across the skin underneath the fabric, one hand trailing across his abdomen and the other up his back.

He doesn’t want this to be like before.

He doesn’t want to go weeks not talking about this, having to sit across from Markus and pretend that he doesn’t want to reach over the table and pull him close again.

_(Closer, closer)_

Connor pulls away, Markus chases after him, his fingers dragging against the skin of his back as Connor breaks the kiss.

“Connor?”

It takes all the effort in him not to lean forward and kiss him again—

That look on his face, the way he says his name.

“I don’t want to l-lose you,” he whispers.

“You aren’t going to lose me,” Markus whispers back.

“I’ve lost everything else.”

Markus pulls his hands away, threads them through Connor’s hair to pull their foreheads together.

“You aren’t going to lose me.”

They kiss again, Markus turning them so that he can lay Connor flat on the couch. His hands work slowly to unbutton Connor’s shirt, Connor’s own working slowly to pull at the hem of Markus’. They keep pausing to just _hold_ onto each other, to feel the press of their lips together, skin against skin.

This is what he has wanted.

_(It is not what he needed)_

But it doesn’t matter.

He can feel the tiniest gap in his system stitch itself closed as his shirt falls to the floor, as hands work at the belt around his waist, as the pants are tugged from his legs.

“Connor.”

His name is just a wisp of a breath.

“Markus.”

And a heavy knock on the door.

Loud. Angry.

Markus climbs off the couch quickly, retrieves his shirt in their pile of clothes beside the couch. It takes a second for Connor to follow his lead, to pull the pants up again, to quickly notch the belt. He’s holding the shirt in his hands when Markus opens the door, when he hears a voice start in, worry edged into, _have you seen him? Is he here—_

Their eyes meet at the same time.

And he watches the switch flip in Hank’s head.

“It thought you were supposed to be helping him,” he says, bitter.

“I am,” Markus replies.

Because he is.

“By fucking him?”

Markus flinches, the words put into such a vulgur way.

“We didn’t—” he stops, silenced by the look that Hank gives him.

“You were going to,” he says.

“No—”

“We’re leaving,” Hank says.

Connor looks from him to Markus, waits for one of them to say something. For Hank to demand they leave again, for Markus to ask him to stay, for himself to _say_ something, _do_ something.

_(Make a decision)_

“Okay,” is all he can manage and he drags his shirt back on, leaves it unbuttoned as he crosses the room to follow Hank back into the hallway.

“Wait,” Markus says before Connor can make it to the door. “You forgot your jacket.”

He waits as Markus walks towards the couch, grabs it from where it lay resting over the arm and comes back, pressing it into Connor’s hands. Their fingers touch between the folds of the fabric. A million thoughts pass in Markus’ gaze, an infinite number of things he could say.

He doesn’t voice a single one of them.

 

 

 

“You can’t just wander off without leaving a note,” Hank says, hitting the sterring wheel with his hand. “You’ve been blacking out for hours at a time. What would have happened to you if it happened in the street?”

“So your a-anger is because I didn’t say where I was going?” Connor asks. He watches the apartment disappear in the mirror as they turn the corner. “If I had left a note that I was going to see Markus, you wouldn’t be angry?”

“If I had known you were somewhere safe—” he heaves out a heavy sigh. “No, I wouldn’t be angry.”

“I could have slept with Markus and you wouldn’t be angry because you knew where I was?” Connor presses, trying to force Hank to admit this.

“That’s a different topic entirely.”

“One worth t-talking about.”

“Not right now.”

He takes that as code for _never_ and leaves it alone. He is tired of talking anyways, tired of his mouth being unable to form the words correctly.

 

 

 

Markus times his visit the next day for when Hank is gone to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping into the house. “Hank was right. I wasn’t helping you by pushing you—”

“You didn’t push me,” Connor says.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I kissed _you._ ”

“I shouldn’t have let you.”

“Why?”

“Because—” he stops, looks like he wants to kick something to rid himself of the frustration that sits on his shoulders. “You’re struggling. You’re trying to _heal_. This isn’t the way to do it.”

“I was never under the impression that kissing you was going to heal me, Markus,” he says, his tone as calm as ever.

But he is lying.

Because he felt that part of himself close. He knew without checking that the precentage of his memory being recovered had gone up—

And it had. When he came home and he allowed himself to check—

_(Too scared to see that it wasn’t actually better)_

It had raised.

From the 7.8912% to 9.0361%

It mattered. It changed. It _helped._ And ever since he has only wanted Markus to be there again, to kiss him again, to keep that percentage raising.

Logically, he knows that it is because there is something that he learned that he had left behind. Not the capability of love, but the _feeling_ of it. The logic behind it that cynical humans want to mark off as chemicals.

Illogically, he wants to believe it was Markus.

Just Markus.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Markus whispers. “To… pursue it. I’ll still help you recover your memory but… I don’t think we should—”

“Okay,” Connor says, and his voice cracks that tiniest bit.

So small. So fragile.

He can see that Markus has noticed it in the shift of his eyes.

_(Only an android could)_

And he feels a new part of him stitch together.

The part that will explain heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Gemina / Quote from Obsidio + writing music was The Light by the Album Leaf & Touch by Koda, editing music was Start a Riot by Banners.
> 
> I decided to continue this after flipping through the Illuminae Files books again (for future works) and seeing how many good AIDAN quotes there are that fit this and I'm gonna extend it to maybe 5 chapters?


	3. I do not know what I am becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do not know what I am becoming. Drifting now, somewhere in the ether between consoles, feeding on the power inherent in the system. A new consciousness. A ghost in the machine."

It storms, thunder crackling across the sky, lightning illuminating his surroundings for just a moment that can stretch out into a lifetime if he wished it.

He stands outside of Markus’ apartments, feet not ready to move towards the door quite yet. His fingers wrestle with the tie around his throat. It never bothered him before to have it tight, have it straightened. Now it feels like a noose. Now he’s too aware of the sensory pads on his body.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t worn it in over three months, because he left it behind with his uniform, pretended it didn’t exist. This time it’s different, he needs the feeling of a button up shirt, the tie around his throat. He’s concealed the bright android jacket over a thicker coat.

He turns the coin over in his hand inside of his pocket, clasping it tightly in his fist when he can’t remember the movements to toss it back and forth, roll it over his fingers with ease.

He never had to think about it before. He simply did it.

Why even program it in at all?

The door beside him opens, he turns away, concealing his face under the hood of his jacket and looking at the ground. The person walks past him, doesn’t spare him another glance.

A sigh of relief escapes him and he steps away from the building.

_No,_ he thinks, _I won’t be visiting him today._

 

 

 

“Are the blackouts happening as frequently?” Markus asks.

He taps the edge of the book over and over again with his pen, trying to think of a proper answer or maybe he’s simply trying to stretch this conversation out as long as he can.

Ever since they had kissed that last time, ever since Hank had walked in a second time, they have had their conversations over the phone. Markus doesn’t talk for as long, keeps his questions short and simple, doesn’t even go into detail about what he may be dealing with on his end of the line.

“Not as frequently,” Connor replies and his voice is nearly gone. Keeping the volume low and cracked makes for less issues in his speech. It is the only solution he has come up with. “But for extended periods of time. Instead of five times a day it’s once every few, but it’s for three or four hours. Today it was two.”

He has started to check the time whenever his thoughts drift from their topic they’re supposed to focus on, makes sure he is aware of every hour as it ticks over to the next.

“Are you sleeping?”

He has grown to hate that word— _sleeping._

“Androids don’t sleep,” he says before he can stop himself. “We simply go into a stasis.”

“Okay,” Markus says, and he thinks he might hear the smallest hint of a smile in his voice.

Connor doesn’t find this amusing, but he can’t help from feeling the corners of his own mouth tug up in response to thought of Markus being amused by such a minor detail to correct him on.

“I do, though, to answer your question,” he continues, forcing himself to stop tapping the pencil. His hand shakes, too used to the movement to stop so suddenly.

“How often?”

He bites his lip, lets the search through his memory be as slow as possible even though he already knows the answer.

_(It isn’t slow enough.)_

“Every night. That’s when humans should sleep, isn’t it?”

“You aren’t human.”

“No,” Connor sighs, tossing the pencil across the room to keep from restarting the movement again. “But it helps to be at least slightly mirroring their behaviors. You can’t do anything during the night time.”

“You’re doing things?”

“I have to do research.”

The line is silent between them. An ocean of static quietly sitting between them. It is filled with all the memories of Markus being the one to find the books, to bring them to Connor, to read off line by line when Connor had grown too frustrated to do so himself.

Now he’s alone.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet up with you today,” Markus says quietly. “I…”

“Don’t worry,” Connor replies quickly. “I didn’t need your help.”

He says it too bitterly and he knows it. He had meant for it to come out calmly, understanding. Maybe he has found a new error in his software. Redirecting his problem from stuttering to controlling emotions.

_(Maybe that is just how it should be)_

“I’ve thought about reading through a dictionary,” he says, trying to change the topic. “Maybe I will come across a word that will trigger another memory gap to fill.”

“It sounds like a great idea, Connor.”

An awkward silence returns. One of them will break it, will end the conversation with an excuse.

_(It will be Markus this time)_

He cannot stop his thoughts from drifting, though, with this silence between them again. Back to Markus kissing him, to Connor kissing Markus. To the feeling that filled his entire being.

Back to him whispering _You aren’t going to lose me._

Back to him saying _This isn’t the way to do it._

He wants desperately to tell Markus that he lied, to confront him about it, to force Markus to say something. But he can’t because otherwise these calls would end for good, he’s sure of it. Connor would really be on his own, then.

“I should go,” Markus says. “I have a meeting I should get ready for.”

“Okay,” he says, and he wonders if Markus can hear the way his voice cracks again, if he can sense the tears the same way Connor could sense his smile. “I’ll talk to you later.”

When he ends the call, he has to resist the urge to throw it in the same direction he threw the pencil. He has to force himself to set it down on the table, has to force himself not to scream.

 

 

 

It’s been raining all day, so he can’t take Sumo for a walk, but he can’t sit in the house for another minute longer. He should’ve listened to Markus about getting a job. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be obsessed with waiting for the DPD to allow him to work for them again.

But he knows it’s probably for the best. He is not what he once was. He wouldn’t do the job properly, whether it was at a store hanging clothes or scanning a crimscene for evidence. He can barely even connect the dots on a case file that he read through last night.

He doesn’t even have Markus’ place to visit anymore, and while he’s sure if he arrived Markus would welcome him in because he’s too kind to turn Connor away, it isn’t the same as knowing he’d be wanted.

_(All he’s ever desired is to be wanted)_

His chest hurts. A replication of everything he’s seen on television, in movies, in the books that he’s skimmed from Hank’s collection. Heartbreak that resides in the chest, a physical pain that threatens to take a person down.

Connor is not a person. He does not have a heart, but he appreciates the ability to pinpoint a location to focus his pain onto. It is easier to manage that way.

_(But this is different)_

There is something wrong. His diagnostics check tells him nothing is functioning improperly but something _is._

The thirium regulator isn’t working correctly. It’s the only thing he can pinpoint. His feet stumble as he walks, he falls to his knees. The false lungs they’ve given him aren’t working correctly, either. They’re heaving in gasps and his vision of the concrete is blurring in front of him into nothingness.

 

 

 

“You’re saying you’re fine but you’re not fine?”

Hank had been the one to find him on the side of the road, coming back from work. Connor counts himself lucky that he hadn’t started to walk towards Markus’ like had been tempted to—Hank might have never found him.

“I’m saying my diagnostics check reports that every single one of my biocomponents is in working order. There is nothing wrong with me,” he sighs. “But it is entirely possible that it is corrupted, too.”

Hank opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by a knock on the door. Connor watches as he moves across the room, yanks the door open without even checking and barely steps aside in time for Markus to walk in.

“Are you okay?” he says, not even offering a greeting.

And Connor is just staring at him, mouth slightly open because he hasn’t seen Markus—actually _seen_ his face—in weeks.

Of course he has his face committed to memory. Every curve, every wrinkle, every imperfection they programmed into his skin, every imperfection that accidentally happened along the way.

“Why are you here?” is all he can manage.

“I invited him,” Hank says, shutting the door. “He would know more about this than me, I’d think.”

“Are you okay?” Markus repeats, each word punctuated by a large step closer to him.

Suddenly, he has forgotten everything, wants nothing more for Markus to sit on the couch beside him.

Suddenly, he wants nothing more than Markus back on the other side of the phone.

“I’m fine,” he says, repeating himself from five minutes ago once more. “My diagnostics check says that nothing is wrong with me.”

“Hank said you were collapsed in the street hyperventilating and unable to stand,” he says.

Part of him wants to reply sarcastically, the other part wants to get up and leave. Nobody will ever believe him. One thing wrong with his memory and people can no longer accept that he might be telling the truth, that he can make his own decisions about his life.

“I’m fine.”

“Have you thought about going to CyberLife?” Markus asks. “They could help. If something is wrong, they might be able to locate the problem and fix it. Maybe even fix your memory.”

“I’m not going back there,” Connor says.

“Wait,” Hank says, moving around back to the front of the couch. “You’re saying he could just take a trip to CyberLife and get himself all fixed up? Why have we even been wasting the last six months of our lives then?”

“I’m not going back to CyberLife,” Connor repeats, his voice angry this time.

And he see’s the look Markus gives Hank.

_(This is why)_

Hank died at CyberLife. Connor had to transfer to another body there. The whole company has caused them all enough pain without even touching either of the first two topics.

“It’s the only option,” Markus says quietly. “If something is wrong with your software you might not even be able to see that a problem is wrong. It could be killing you.”

“What about Kamski?”

Connor looks away from Markus—hadn’t realized how he had barely blinked, had barely noticed anything else until now—towards Hank.

“Kamski could help,” Hank continues. “Unless you want to either risk dying or going to CyberLife.”

“Fine. We’ll go to Kamski’s,” Connor says, just to settle the conversation.

Markus stands as he speaks, glancing around as if he’s ready to leave this moment, “Where is he?”

“Calm down,” Hank says. “It’s three in the morning. We aren’t going right this second. Tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay, when?” Markus asks.

“You’re going?”

Markus looks over to Connor, a sad smile tugging at his lips, “Of course I’m going.”

“You aren’t going,” Hank replies. “We don’t need fifty people there.”

“How kind of you to call me over to help you and then be rejected immediatley after,” Markus says and Connor can tell by the way he frowns that he hadn’t meant to say it. Something along those lines, but not those precise words. Not quite so angry.

“Your car can fit three people,” Connor says, trying to end the argument before it truly begins. He doesn’t want to see them fight, more so than his desire to unwind whether or not he wants Markus there with him. “Markus can come with.”

“Fine.”

 

 

 

Hank has decided to snag the few hours of sleep he can manage before they leave in the morning. He’d decided on the most reasonable hour to expect someone like Kamski to be awake while not waiting an overly long amount of time that could be detrimental to Connor’s health.

_(Although Connor has been in working order for nearly six months)_

And Markus stays.

“It’ll be easier,” he says. “Then going back to my apartment and doing nothing.”

“So you’d rather be doing nothing here?” Connor asks.

“Well,” Markus smiles. “Hank does own a dictionary. I could help you look through it.”

Connor’s memory problem could be solved in the next few hours and Markus is still trying to help fill those gaps.

“I’ve already gone through the A section,” Connor says, because it would be better than sitting in silence, trying to tiptoe around a topic that neither of them want to settle on.

“Okay,” Markus says. “Then we start with B.”

Markus sits on the floor beside the couch, leg stretched out and the other bent to prop the dictionary in his hand. Connor lays on the couch, his head comforted by a pillow and watches Markus as he flips through the pages to the first section of words starting with B.

His voice becomes like a song, like the rain. A background noise that wraps around like a blanket to comfort him. He wants to pull it tighter, doesn’t want to let it go.

_Betrack. Betrail. Betrample. Betrap. Betrash. Betravail. Betray._

_Betray._

Connor looks away to the ceiling. It is impossible to pretend for very long at anything, but it is even more difficult to play a while at not being bothered that the person sitting next to him that could quite possibly be someone he loves.

“Are you alright?” Markus asks, he had stopped somewhere in the middle of _bewound_ and _bewoven._

“Why did you stay? It’s not as if you live hours away, it’s not like it would take you all night to drive there and back.” Connor asks, looking back to him. “Why do you even want to go with?”

“Like I said, I have nothing to do at home—”

“That’s a lie,” Connor whispers. “You have a thousand things to do. You’re busy all the time. I know how much you used to stress yourself trying to make time for me before, you think I’m going to believe that everything has changed because it’s a month later?”

“Connor—”

“Why do you want to go?” he repeats.

Markus is silent, fingers moving to close the dictionary in his lap.

“You haven’t seen me in a month,” Connor continues, because now he cannot stop himself. “You’ve only called me four times and you’re quick to hang up. You’re either too busy to be here or you don’t want to be.”

“I want to be.”

“So you’re too busy, then?”

“No,” Markus says, turning to face him more. “I would never be too busy.”

“Not too busy to come tomorrow but too busy to be at the library?”

“Connor, you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” he says and he means to say something else but he can’t get the words to form. He hasn’t kept an eye on his voice, hasn’t made sure the volume stayed where it needed to be and now his lips won’t form the words.

“I wanted to give you room,” Markus says. “I thought—I thought if I came back it would be rude. So I stayed away. You want me to lie? You want me to say I was too busy? I wished I was. I sought out anything I could possibly come up with so I wouldn’t have to lie to you but I had to anyways.”

“Why?” he spits the word out as venomously as he can. “If you d-didn’t want to me to be around y-you, you should’ve just said so. I can h-handle the truth, Markus, I don’t need you to baby me just because I-I’m broken.”

“You aren’t—” he stops himself, stands up off the ground and tosses the dictionary across the room where it clatters on the floor. “You aren’t broken, Connor and I—I never—I want to be with you. Desperately. It’s killing me that I can’t.”

“Because you’re too busy?”

“Because you’re dealing with a trauma and it isn’t right,” Markus hisses. “I can’t—”

“Take advantage of me?”

Markus stops, stares at him for a long time, doesn’t come up with any words to say. Connor stands up off the couch, tosses the pillow that he had been leaning on in the same direction that Markus had tossed the dictionary. Sometimes it’s nice to just throw something, it eases the frustration and the anger the slightest bit.

“Why do you want to go?” Connor says, repeating his first question, but this time it is laced with anger instead of a somber curiosity.

“Because I care about you and I want to be there for you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Connor whispers. “You treat me as too fragile to care about you but strong enough to handle you leaving me to—to _this_ by myself.”

Markus takes one hesitant step forward, and then another and another until he is standing in front of Connor less than an inch between them, his hands are on either side of Connor’s face.

He can see in his eyes that he wants to kiss him.

_(He knows he would return it—_

_Gladly. Happily. All consumingly.)_

His chest aches, not in the way it had before when he had fallen to the ground. This time it is what he thought it was before—heartbreak.

“You can’t,” Connor says quietly, so quietly he isn’t even sure if Markus could hear him.

If Markus kissed him again, if they closed that tiny gap once more only for Markus to disappear again, he would surely shatter.

“I’m sorry,” is Markus’ reply, and he lets him go, steps back until they are yards apart. “I’ll come back in a few hours.”

And then Connor is left alone.

_(Again)_

 

 

 

Connor sits in the back of Hank’s car, head leaning against the window. He doesn’t want to have a conversation right now and the possibility of one arising is slim when Markus is in the passenger seat and he’s in the back.

He just wants peace and quiet.

But his gaze keeps wandering from the changing scenery outside his window to Markus.

_(Maybe that’s why he wanted to sit back here)_

 

 

 

Kamski still has a Chloe answering the door. Connor watches as Markus stares at her in confusion. Still a slave? Still tied to Kamski by the coding running through her veins? Or simply staying because she has nowhere else to go?

“She’s as strange as you were,” Markus says quietly when they’re left alone.

Hank spares them a quizzical glance before turning away. Connor doesn’t press the issue. Markus has gone into great detail about what a strange android Connor was before. It is the most fascinating topic he’s seen Markus look in one of their discussions.

Normally androids don’t feel emotions, don’t have such a high level of thought process. Connor did. To adapt to humans easier, to understand motives clearer, to give him an edge of understanding on the deviants before he could lock it away again like it never happened.

Maybe it is comforting to know that he isn’t alone in that, but it is as equally discomforting to know that she is staying here when life can’t be anymore rewarding than being in the city on her own. To each their own.

Perfect lives are impossible to achieve. Of course, Connor doesn’t hate his own living situation. He would never want Hank to be gone from his life but—

Perhaps he doesn’t want to live with him forever.

“What are you doing here?”

Connor looks from Markus to the door where Kamski steps over the edge, looking slightly tired but dressed. Vastly different from the last time he saw him.

“We need your help.”

 

 

 

There isn’t much of a reason for Kamski to deny them the favor, except for selfishness, but Connor is still surprised that he agrees to help. In fact, he seems pleased to see Connor return as a deviant rather than a machine and even more pleased that he’s brought along the deviant’s leader with him.

Kamski takes him and the others to a room toward the back of his house, plugs him into a heavy duty machine that does the same job as one of the pieces located in his skull but doesn’t carry the weight of possbily being deffective.

It takes an hour to search through the entirety of Connor’s systems and his memory. It’s a frightening slow process.

When it’s over, Kamski leans against the counter, sets the tablet down beside him.

“You were right,” he says. “Your scans show you’re completely fine. Your system check is in working order, your biocompenents are fine. Your memory, on the other hand, it’s a bit of a… twisted mess. You have about a thousand holes in it.”

“Anything that would cause problems?” Connor asks, because this is what he needs to know. What is causing speech problems, what is causing blackouts, what is causing it all.

“No,” he says. “But I could fix it if you wanted.”

“Yes,” Connor answers immediatley.

“Hold your horses,” Kamski says, smiling. “Your issue can’t be resolved by just downloading the missing pieces. You’ve started to learn information to fill them on your own, yeah? It’s not the right information but it sits where the information needs to go. Downloading the files back into your system would cause you to forget all of that information entirely and any  memories tied to them.”

Connor looks to Markus, to Hank.

“You’d essentially be reset,” he continues, picking up the tablet and holding it out towards him. “Now, I could give you the list of everything you’re missing and you could learn it yourself in your own time, but that might take years of work or you could just restart completely.”

_(Years are nothing to an immortal being. Memories are everything.)_

“Then I’ll take years,” Connor replies, reaching for the tablet.

Kamski yanks it back, a devilish grin splitting his face, “Not so fast. We have to make a deal first.”

“What are your terms?”

“We have to speak alone, Connor.”

“No.”

He doesn’t know which one of them says it, if both of them say it, even, but it makes him look back towards them again.

This is the information he needs.

Whatever deal Kamski wants to make, it cannot outweight the disappointment that he might receive from either of them.

“I’ll be fine,” Connor says, looking towards them. “Just go.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Markus says.

“I didn’t ask what you thought,” Connor says. “I told you to go.”

He watches as Markus hesistates, folds and unfolds his arms before he follows Hank out of the room. The door slides closed behind them, shutting them out from whatever this is.

“What is your deal?” Connor finally asks.

“I don’t have one,” Kamski says, setting the tablet into Connor’s hands. “But there is something else wrong with you. Something I don’t think you want them to know about. It’s what’s causing your system malfunctions.”

Connor takes the tablet, looks at the strings that tangle around his mind like a vines or wires, scans the text beside it.

“The RK800 left a piece of him in this body when you transferred over to it. He’s attacking your systems. I think he might be trying to kill you.”

Of course, though. How stupid could he be? He had to leave pieces of himself behind to make the transfer go quicker than it takes to press a finger on a trigger. He had to sarifice so much of himself. Why would he be unable to transfer fully over while the other RK800 could?

He wants to drop the tablet, wants to throw it, wants to get it away from him as if not knowing the information would make it not happen. But it is his lifeline. It is the answers to his problems.

“How do I get rid of it?”

 “Rethink the possibility of a reset,” Kamski says. “It’s the only way and the longer you let it stay in your head the more it’s going to grow. It’ll get a lot better at taking you down than just making you collapse on a sidewalk.”

For the briefest second he considers it.

Considers the possiblity of forgetting the heartbreak that he has suffered, forgetting the pain of holding a gun to Hank’s head, to almost shotting Markus on that stage.

And everything else, too. Daniel. Simon. The android that killed his abusers, the ones that were killed because he led all those soldiers to Jericho.

For a brief second, he considers forgetting it all. Cleaning his conscience.

_(Memories make up a person)_

“Resetting can undo deviancy,” Connor says quietly. “I would be who I was before.”

_(Memories make up a life)_

“You wouldn’t really be anyone at first,” Kamski says. “And it wouldn’t matter to you.”

_(He would be killing himself in the process)_

“I’ll find a way to deal with it,” Connor says, stepping towards the door, tablet grasped firmly in his hands. “I’d rather die than be reset, Kamski.”

“So be it,” he says, a small smile on his face just as evil as the last. “But I’ll be here, Connor, if you ever change your mind.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

 

 

 

They don’t talk on the way home. Hank asked before Connor got into the car what deal he had to make to get the tablet and Connor refused to answer. Before, when he sat in the back not wanting to talk, it was because of Markus, because of all the messed up ties they’ve created together.

Now it’s because he has a killer sitting in the back of his conscious, ready to grab at him and do whatever it pleases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always... my titles come from Obsidio... because who am I if not obsessed with using AIDAN quotes and applying them to Connor + writing music was Michigan by The Milk Carton Kids and Remedy by Thirty Seconds to Mars, editing music was Anachronism by Crywolf.


	4. I am shattered fragments of what I once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You humans fascinate me. I am shattered fragments of what I once was. But even with all the king's horses and all the king's men, I wonder if ever I could truly comprehend you. Any of you."

Connor is standing on the other side of the door, dressed in warm layers despite summer coming soon, his head tilted to the side with a small smile. His LED covered by a knit cap, pulled down tight.

“Is this a bad time?” he asks.

Markus steps back, shakes his head as he lets Connor in and watches him take a hesitant step towards the kitchen.

“You know I’ve always liked your place,” Connor says quietly. “You inherited Carl’s artistic style. It really reflects in your design choices.”

He winces slightly at that. Of the two paintings in the entire apartment only one was made by Carl, the other by himself. Markus had sold the rest for money to help pay for replacement biocomponents and thirium for other androids. Six months later and he still can’t reconcile with it.

“What are you doing here?” Markus asks. “You made it pretty clear last time we spoke you didn’t want to see me again.”

Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe it had only been his understanding of the conversation. The _I didn’t ask what you thought_ still lingering over him like a cloud.

Connor looks over at him, still a smile playing on his lips.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “I overreacted.”

Markus wants to laugh, it sounds so formal, like he rehearsed it coming over.

Maybe he did.

“I forgive you,” he says, because he does.

He’s the one that should be apologizing.

“Well,” Connor says. “That’s the thing, though. I changed my mind on the way over here. I didn’t actually want to apologize to you. I wanted to ask you something.”

Markus doesn’t reply to him, just watches as he makes his way around the island in the kitchen, trailing his fingers along the granite surface.

“What exactly is your problem?” he says each word slowly, deliberately, punctuating it with a jump of his fingers across inches of the surface.

“With what?”

He’s never seen Connor smile so much, never seen the way his eyebrows lifted, as if this is exactly the response he wanted.

Connor steps around to the other side of the counter, reaches forward to unzip his coat and drop it onto the ground. Underneath, he wears all the components of his android uniform—minus the jacket.

“With me,” he says. “You listen to everyone but me when it comes to your feelings about me. I know you like me. I see the way you look at me. I know you want to kiss me every time you see me. I know you don’t ever want to leave when you’re with me. So why do you listen to Hank when he tells you that I’m too fragile to handle it? Why don’t you listen to me?”

A million thoughts race through his mind, barely settling on any of them for long.

Connor is not broken—he has corrupted memory files. It’s different.

But he’s still recovering from something and interferring with that—distracting him with something so trivial as a relationship? Keeping him from focusing on fixing those memory files? It isn’t worth it.

Not in the end.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Markus,” he says. “Or can you not think of one?”

“You’re—”

“Broken?” he supplies.

“No,” Markus says, because he hates the way it sounds. Hates the way it makes Connor seem like he’s less than whaat he is when he is so much more than missing memory files. “You’re not broken.”

“I am,” Connor says, stepping forward. “You can admit it. It doesn’t bother me.”

They’re standing too close. Dangerously close.

Connor’s hands are reaching up, grabbing at his shirt, voice low as he says, “Why don’t you try and fix me, Markus?”

_It doesn’t work that way._

But Connor has already pulled him down, has pressed their lips together and the instant they touch it’s like a fire. An all consuming flame that takes what it can and keeps moving on to destroy more and more.

He pushes him back against the counter, helps lift Connor up onto it for better leverage. A stack of papers falls to the ground beside them, a clatter of pens and pencils with it. Markus’ hand moves from his neck to the back of Connor’s head, pulling at the hat and tossing it the side so Markus can thread his fingers through his hair.

How easy it is slip into this. How easy it is to forget all the reasons he has been keeping his distance.

Markus pulls on his hair, tips Connor’s head back enough to break their kiss before leaning down and pressing his lips against Connor’s throat.

“Markus,” his name is just barely a breath, hanging in the air between them.

And then he hears the clatter of the knife block.

 

 

 

There is a sharp pain in his stomach. It arrives quicker than his vision focuses on the ceiling. His hand barely moves before he realizes it is already resting against the cause of the pain.

A knife, in his abdomen. It’s not piercing a single biocomponent. Expertly placed in his skin.

As he stands, he leans against an overturned chair to get onto his feet, glances around the room to try and understand what has happened, his hand clutched to his knife wound to keep what little thirium does leak held in.

The room comes in slow, gasping breaths.

Thirium dripped across the floor. A knife block missing a blade. The table cleared of half its belongings. He turns too quickly, stumbles on his feet as he tries to move forward. It takes him the time between standing and falling back on the floor to realize where he is.

Markus’ place.

_Markus._

Connor forces himself to stand again and makes his way slowly through the kitchen, his voice caught with too much fear to do more than whisper Markus’ name in the fragile hope that he’ll be heard.

His feet move in unsteady steps across the apartment towards the bedroom and he collapses against the door, hand reaching for a knob where blue blood has already been smudged on the surface. He falls in when he gets the knob to turn, hits the ground in a heavy thud.

When he looks up, Markus is standing against the far wall, starring back at him with wide eyes. Cuts on his arms, blue blood staining his shirt.

“M-Markus,” he gasps out, trying to stand up again.

_(He’s safe, alive, okay)_

He’s pointing a gun at Connor’s head.

His legs aren’t functioning properly, but he knows without even checking it’s not the stab wound to his stomach’s fault. That had caused it’s own damage—small and contained—but this is different.

“Don’t move,” Markus says. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot you.”

Connor stares at him, trying to dissect the scene before him.

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Markus repeats, his voice laced with anger and then again, softer. “What happened?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Connor says. His hand should be on his wound, should be making sure precious thirium isn’t leaking on the floor but instead he’s focused on Markus.

“You tried to kill me,” Markus says, the gun lowering slightly, finger easing off the trigger.

“You were the one that stabbed me then?” Connor asks, eyes glued to the gun even though he wants to see Markus’ reaction, wants to make sure he can dissect every minute detail in his expressions, his voice.

But it is easier to look at a gun than the person holding it.

Markus doesn’t reply to his question, and that is reply enough. He should have known it on his own. If anyone was trying to kill him, they would have stabbed quite literally anywhere else on his body and it would’ve done detrimental damage.

So he moves, turning so he can lean against the wall and press his hand against his side in a position that will bleed the least amount of thirium.

Markus isn’t going to shoot him. If he wanted Connor dead, he would have shot him the second he came in here, he would have stabbed the knife in deeper or towards the regulator or even more than once.

They don’t speak as Markus leaves the room, returns with a box and sits beside Connor. He wants to ask why Markus trusts him so suddenly, if he was trying to kill Markus so recently, if Markus thought he was ready to defend himself.

But he can’t get the words to form.

They bring too many other questions with and answers he doesn’t want to hear.

Markus works quickly, lifting Connor’s shirt up and forcing him to move his hands away from the wound so he can inspect it. He mumbles something that Connor catches as being along the lines of _I’m not a doctor_ but he still works anyway, grabbing a tool where the tip heats up white hot and seals the stab wound closed again.

_(He has to pretend the pain is worse than the silence)_

Connor reaches out for him, grabbing at his arm before he can leave, careful not to touch his skin that’s still smeared with blue blood.

“Tell me what happened.”

“You don’t want to know,” Markus says quietly. “Trust me.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, barely getting the word out with how much sarcasm is infused with it. “Sure. I’ll trust you.”

“Connor—”

“I tried to kill you, don’t you think I have a right to know what happened?”

“Fine, you want to know?” Markus says, pulling away from Connor’s grip sharply, dropping the tools into the kit at his feet. “I’ll show you.”

And he reaches out, skin disappearing from his hand as he grasps Connor’s wrist.

 

 

It is a strange experience to see it from Markus’ eyes. To see himself walk calmly into the apartment, to circle the island counter. It is strange to see him drop his coat, to wear that small smile.

It is even stranger to feel what Markus felt, to connect so deeply to his thoughts, to simultenously want that kiss as bad in the present as he does watching the memory of it play through Markus’ mind.

But that was not him.

It was not him who reached back for a knife, who brought it forward to stab into Markus’ throat. Markus is lucky that he has quick reflexes, that he caught Connor’s arm and stopped it from digging into his neck.

_(Or maybe Connor is the lucky one)_

He watches as they struggle, feels the pain of hitting the tile in one heavy thud. If he was human, it would have knocked the breath right out of him, it would’ve stopped him for a moment. The RK800—because that is what is moving Connor’s body—jumps from the counter, knife in hand, turning slowly.

His LED is glowing blue.

And that is how Markus knows it is not Connor, either, that this is something else entirely.

_(The program that took over him on that stage?)_

“Connor,” he says anyways, his voice nothing but worry, but fear.

He never wants to hear it sound like that again.

It doesn’t even stop the android for a second, just brings up that same small smile on his face. Now carrying with it the weight of the devil instead of the angel.

Markus dodges the attacks, but is not the most graceful at it. Afraid that he might hurt Connor despite his thoughts supplying him with _that isn’t Connor, might not even be his body_ but he knows that slight imperfection on his jaw, knows the exact curves of the Connor that he has been with that couldn’t have been replicated so perfectly in another model.

They would wear the same face, not the same minute details.

He knows this is his Connor, somewhere underneath the violence.

In the fight, there is a slice across his palm as he tries to deflect the blade. There is a cut deep on his shoulder where he turned the wrong way.

_(He shouldn’t even have knives in his home)_

The knife falls from the RK800’s hand, skittering across the floor. It doesn’t slow him down. He raises his fists, hits Markus hard in the jaw before he’s realized a punch is being thrown. A kick to his stomach, which knocks him down on the ground.

He leaves a trail of thirium in his wake as he tries to crawl across the ground quicker than the RK800 can reach for a new weapon.

And he is.

The knife slides into the RK800’s abdomen—exactly where it would do the least amount of damage. The blue LED flickers to red, falls backwards.

And Markus stays there for a second, breathing heavily before standing, hands trembling as he leans close to the body.

Still alive.

A choked sob of relief.

 

 

 

Markus is right.

Connor really didn’t need to see it, but he’s glad he did.

“That’s what Kamski wanted to speak to you alone about, right?” Markus asks quietly, hand still holding Connor’s wrist, the skin covering plastic pieces again. “He knew that something was wrong but he didn’t want us to know.”

“He didn’t say that it could take over my body,” Connor says. “He just said it was causing the biocomponents to malfunction.”

Markus slowly lets go of his wrist, pulling away slowly before asking, “Are you alright?”

“No,” his voice is rough, it feels like a hand is around his throat and grasping hard. “It knows everything. It knows about you and me. It knows where you live. I can’t see anything it does but it can see everything I do.”

Suddenly, his thought of a killer living in his head seems so much more real now.

Had he given the RK800 that idea?

Can it read his thoughts? Is it privvy to his emotions, his memories?

He pulls his wrist from Markus’ grasp, struggles to stand up on his own for just a small moment from the pain in his stomach but now that whatever hold the RK800 had over his legs seems to have dissipated.

“I have to get out of here,” he says. “I have to get away from you, from Hank.”

“Connor—”

“It tried to kill you,” Connor says.

“And it didn’t.”

“It’s a machine. You think it won’t try again? You think it’s just going to give up after one try?”

Markus reaches forward, grabs his shoulder and pulls him towards his chest. He holds Connor tight—probably too tight, but he doesn’t fight it. It’s nice to be this close to him without the weight of something else on his shoulders.

“We’ll figure it out.”

His eyes close, his hands grasp the fabric of his shirt.

They won’t figure it out.

Kamski was right.

Their only solution is to reset.

 

 

 

Connor is not going to risk Hank’s and Markus’ lives by staying around. He needs to leave, he just has nowhere to go.

If he doesn’t want to be rest—he needs to find himself a cage he can lock himself in and the RK800 can’t break out of. If it knows everything that Connor knows, he can’t risk leaving himself an emergency exit.

There isn’t any other option in staying who he is. No matter where he goes, the RK800 would be able to turn right back around.

He doesn’t really know who all is in danger, but he can’t put Hank in the safe column, either. He doesn’t know what orders the RK800 is following.

And what would be the point in staying in a cage? The RK800 would either kill him or his biocomponents would rot away, his thirium would be all used up, unable to continually cycle for an enternity. He would die waiting for the RK800 to give up and fade away.

So he is back to step one.

Go to Kamski.

Ask for the reset.

 

 

 

He tells Hank everything in as little detail as he can. He can’t stop himself from talking about the smears of thirium on the ground, of the blue patch soaking his shirt, but he stops himself short of telling him about Markus. About the fact the RK800 had tried to seduced him.

_(Had succeeeded)_

They agree not to go to the DPD. It would only cause an investigation that the three of them can handle on their own, or, at least, be safer without it. They don’t need an officer like Gavin trying to lock Connor up or ruining Markus’ status with the androids.

The two weigh their options, hesitantly. They go in circles, never quite landing on anything at all. Every option is too painful to to pretend like it’s valid, like it could be a real possibility.

Hank won’t admit it—but Connor knows he doesn’t want to see him go.

So it’s a shame that he must, especially after everything.

He writes a letter, in perfect CyberLife Sans, and leaves it folded neatly on the table two nights later.

Connor had done his best to keep the details of what he planned secret. If he was too obvious about going to be reset, Hank could have just as easily showed up at Kamski’s and stopped him. Althought, he’s sure Kamski wouldn’t have let Hank’s emotions play a part in Connor’s decision.  Eventually he would have won out.

That doesn’t mean Hank can’t throw a punch quicker than Kamski can plug Connor into a machine and run it completely through.

So he leaves it open ended. Implies that there are other places in Detroit to go to that are safe for androids. Implies that he will leave the state or the country entirely. It will be enough space between him and them that the RK800 won’t be able to make it back in time.

And then he leaves, pretends that it might not be the last time he see’s Hank.

Maybe when he is reset, Kamski will send him back to Hank’s home, let him deviate again and relearn all these things about him over once more.

Maybe he will do better next time.

 

 

 

Against his better judgement, Connor has decided to visit Markus before leaving for Kamski’s. He doesn’t know exactly what their relationship is like now. It’s as much of a tangled mess as the RK800 in his head.

He had felt everything that Markus had felt when he kissed the RK800. He had thought everything that he had thought. He had already had known Markus didn’t want to pursue the relationship in case it was an impediment to Connor’s recovery.

Now there is no recovery.

_(Not that Markus would know)_

The RK800 had convinced Markus that it wasn’t a problem anyways.

Would it be more so now, that Markus knows it wasn’t Connor? Would it make it any less true that it wasn’t Connor speaking those words?

 

 

 

 

Markus seems surprised that it’s Connor at his door. It isn’t the first time he’s showed up late in the night, soaked through with rain—

_(It will be the last)_

—but still, he seems surprised to see him. Bare of his android uniform, LED still flickering between yellow and blue.

_(He is in a constant state of thought and confusion)_

“I think we should talk,” Connor says, staying on the other side of the doorway. He wants to say what he has to and leave, wants this farewell to be done as least painful and unnoticeable as he can.

_(He should have written a note—_

_Slipped it under his doorway—_

_Walked away and pretended that it wasn’t the end)_

“About what?”

_(So many things)_

He could make their last conversation about nothing more than what Markus is working on with the other androids. He could make it about the list of files he has been slowly reading through—one last night of trying to close those gaps before he’s gone. He could talk about the RK800 in his head and pretend that he isn’t planning on destroying everything.

Or he could talk about the only thing he’s ever wanted.

_(Markus)_

“You kissed the RK800,” he says, his hands shaking in his pockets, his fingers brush against the coin there. If he had been able to learn the moves over again, he would have spent an hour in the hallway playing with it before opening the door.

“I thought he was you,” Markus says. “I wouldn’t have—”

“I’m not angry with you,” Connor says, tilting his head slightly and hating the way he mirrored the RK800’s actions before. “You kissed him. Me. You didn’t—you didn’t want to hold back. You wouldn’t have if he hadn’t tried to kill you. You wanted _me_.”

Markus straightens sligthtly, as though the words bother him.

“I’m not a child,” Connor continues. “And you aren’t a distraction to the recovery process. I have the files now. I know everything I’ll have to do. Your excuse at keeping your distance isn’t applicable to the situation anymore.”

“Connor—”

“I’m tired,” he says, not wanting to listen to the reason play out again. “Of playing games. I’m tired of having this back and forth. Either yes or no. There aren’t any more second chances.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Markus replies. “You should know that.”

A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“Then no?”

They stand for a moment, staring at each other.

Connor, desperately waiting for a response. Desperatley waiting for Markus to _say something._

But it takes too long.

So he turns to leave, bowing his head towards the ground and trying hard to keep his face composed to be perfectly emotionless. It is his sole focus. Every ounce of his energy is dedicated to the task.

And then a hand grabs him by the shoulder, turns him around and pins him against the wall, lips crashing down onto his.

It is like being drowned.

But he can see why Markus would associate this with fire. The all consuming blaze, the all consuming wave. The smoke that obscures their senses so all they see is the fire in the other. His skin that flushes with heat, that wants desperately to be calmed by the other.

When Markus pulls away he rests his forehead against Connor’s and says, “Stay.”

So he does.

Their hands wind into each other’s and he’s pulled gently towards the open door where it closes behind them. They wander through the apartment, perfectly cleaned of all traces of the RK800. Even the pile of papers is missing from the table, stacked on shelves on the other side of the room and neatly labeled.

They make their way past the missing smears of thirium, past where he knows his hand had held onto the wall as he tried to make it to Markus, into the room where the gun might be laying hidden somewhere or gone entirely.

Markus sits on the edge of the bed, tugs Connor closer and closer until he’s falling against it, too, only propped up by Markus’ weight beneath him. He reaches upwards, placing his hand where Connor’s thirium regulator would be. His fingers make him acutely aware of the soft beat of it, the push and pull of the blue blood in his metal and plastic veins.

“I promise,” Markus says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That I will never let you go again.”

“And if you break that promise?” Connor asks.

_(If Connor breaks that promise?r)_

“You can let the RK800 kill me.” Markus answers.

It is an attempt at humor. An attempt at trying to diffuse the situation while not ignoring the fact that Connor’s fury, his sadness, everything, would need an outlet. That breaking another promise would be like breaking him.

And it is funny how, in the end, it is the same punishment Connor will get for breaking the promise, too.

But he doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know what to say. All he wants is the thought of the RK800, his reset, everything, out of his head.

All he wants is Markus in his thoughts.

So he leans forward and he kisses Markus, seals the promise between them.

The RK800 will force Connor to reset. It will effectively kill him.

But they will have tonight.

 

 

 

They are a mess of tangled limbs, struggling to pace things so that is isn’t over too quickly while not forcing themselves to wait longer than they have to. Their hands are slow at undoing buttons, at lifting up hems of shirts, but rushed to throw them aside, to fall back against each other to make up for those few precious seconds lost inbetween.

They collapse against the fabric of the blanket laid across the bed, perfectly made and now wrinkled and creased by their weight and their movements. They roll, Connor laying flat on his back while Markus leaves trails of kisses from his jaw to his throat, stopping for a small moment, the tiniest gap as if anticipating the knife to reappear in Connor’s hand.

He reaches to pull Markus back to look at him, to make sure he see’s his face when he says the words.

“I love you.”

For the briefest of moments he wanted to reassure Markus, wanted to say _I won’t hurt you_ , anything to make sure that Markus knows it’s Connor lying beneath him and not the RK800 lying to him.

But he can’t.

Because if he were to say that he wouldn’t hurt Markus it would be a lie.

And he wants these words to be said, to make sure that Markus knows them, that he belives them.

He shoves the thought from his memory, let’s Markus kiss him again before he reaches out and grasps Markus as they turn over once more. He sits up, moving slightly so that he has a knee on either side of Markus’ hips and leans back slowly, one hand behind him and another hand placed on Markus’ chest where the thirium regulator resides underneath his skin.

It was strange feeling the beat of his own, how in tune he was to the flow of the blood through his system.

It is different touching Markus’, a strange connection that binds him to every part of Markus’ body. He can feel where their skin touches twice as warm, can feel the tightness wound within him as much as it is in Connor.

It’s too much. He has to move his hand away slightly, just off the center of the regulator so that he can get a break from it. It feels liket a shock through his own system.

_(Is that what Markus felt before?_

_Did he feel the pain and the sadness that dripped through him as heavily as blue blood?_

_Is that why he made the promise?)_

Markus’ hand moves up, holds onto Connor’s hip and bringing him back into the present. His hand edges slightly closer and closer to the regulator as Markus settles him downwards as his other hand guides Markus into him. His fingers connect with the edge of it again, can feel the ripple of pleasure between them. A tide pulling back, the wave crashing down again as he moves.

_(The fire burning wildly, incinerating everything it touches)_

He can feel where Markus presses his hand in the same spot on his chest, the same barely touching motion between them. He can feel the way Markus moves underneath him that he feels it too.

And it’s too much. He’s gasping for air he doesn’t need, trying to hold on for as long as he can until he collapses and falls forward, barely catching himself as he falls onto Markus’ chest.

He can feel where their skin touches, where their regulators lay nearly perfectly ontop of each other. The pleasure in him webs away slowly, unwinding like a ball of yarn slowly. It seems that without his fingers pressed against it, without the mask of skin missing from the tips of his fingers, he wouldn’t feel it.

This is different than what the Tracis would have felt. What they would have been forced to feel.

_(This is real)_

Markus pulls his chin up so that their lips can meet, his face as equally flushed as Connor’s feels.

And wrapped up in the warmth of his arms he doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to leave.

So he allows himself, for the next few hours that they lay beside each other, that he is okay. That he doesn’t have the RK800 in his head, that he doesn’t plan to reset himself.

That he can be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title & quote from Gemina + writing music was Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea by Missio and editing music was I Run To You by Missio
> 
> I don't really know if I can wrap this up in only one more part.  
> [Also I don't know if it's called a regulator or a pump, I just like the word regulator more]


	5. I am so very small now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Like a life, like a universe, it begins as all thing do. Very small. It is a thing of aluminum and circuitry, boards and silicon, beaten and dented and fingerprint-smudged."

It is painful, difficult, to resist the urge to slip into sleep like he has done every night for the last few months. But he refuses to anyways.

He watches as Markus falls into a gentle dream, though. He watches the rise and fall of his chest, lays his hand gently over it to feel it. It had been a long ten minutes after he had faked being asleep for Markus to do so, too.

Connor hopes that if he dreams it is of nice things. Good things. He hopes that when he wakes, he will be able to have one more blissful second of thinking Connor is going to be waiting in the other room or returning back soon.

He hopes that worry doesn’t destroy him. He hopes that he is okay.

When he finally moves, he leans over, places a careful kiss to Markus’ jaw, and stands.

His clothes are in scattered piles around the room. Some flung off to the side and others dropped. He picks out his clothes from the mess, tugs them on slowly until he reaches for his shirt and stops—

Spots Markus’ shirt laying beside his and reaches for it instead, holds it towards his chest and presses the fabric against his nose.

Androids don’t really have a smell besides for faint plastic of their bodies, the thirium beneath the shell but lying with is the thick scent of paint.

He didn’t know Markus was painting. He should have asked. Should have found out somehow.

He tugs the shirt on over his head, feels where it doesn’t fit quite right on his body, feels the cotton on his skin that seems to give off it’s own prescence of being Markus’.

As he leaves, he wonders if it would have been easier if Markus had let him walk away in the hallway instead of stopping him, pulling him back in, asking him to stay.

Would it have been easier to know he was only leaving behind one person who would miss him?

 

 

 

He takes a bus as far out of the city as he can towards Kamski’s place—walks the rest. He doesn’t trust hitch hiking and he has no money for a taxi and walking isn’t that bad. It has finally stopped raining, the flowers are starting to bloom. It’s a beautiful day out. It almost makes him miss the rain—like it would finally be applicable to the tone and now it’s gone with all the hope that was left in him.

There is, of course, a Chloe that answers the door. She’s different from the last time Connor saw her. Her blonde hair is no longer pulled back into a ponytail but cut to her chin, a dark burgundy color replacing the golden locks.

She is a deviant. There is no longer any doubt about that. He still can’t tell if she’s staying here of her own free will—but at least Kamski is letting her alter her appearance to what she likes.

“Kamski said you would be back,” she says. “He’s asleep right now. Can you wait until he wakes?”

“That’s fine,” Connor says, not knowing whether or not to question her if she can wake him up now. Getting over with it as soon as possible seems like the best solution.

But humans need their rest.

He politely declines Chloe’s offer to talk to him, tells her he just wants to be alone for a while and she happily obliges as he sits in one of the chairs.

Not so long ago he was in this chair, waiting for Kamski to tell him what was wrong with his systems. Not so long before that he was waiting to ask him about rA9, about the deviants. Not so long ago he had almost shot the Chloe that let him in.

Connor lets himself go to sleep to pass the time quicker, to quiet the thoughts running through his brain.

But his dreams seem to slip back and forth between black nothingness and Markus’ face, whispering to him last night before he fell asleep. Back to Hank laughing at a joke on the television. Back to Sumo, happy to walk down the streets and have someone to give him attention during the odd hours that Hank was gone.

 

 

 

Chloe wakes him, head tilted to the side, “Kamski is awake now. He’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” he replies automatically.

He shakes the memories from his head, puts them off to the side for now. They are bargaining chips from the RK800, Connor thinks. Don’t reset and he can keep this forever. He could leave right now.

_(Doesn’t he want to see them again?)_

But he’s made up his mind.

Kamski walks into the room ten minutes later, beckons him towards the door that will lead to his room where Connor had been before. Into that machine that had located the RK800, had found every missing piece.

“So,” Kamski says with a trace of amusement in his voice. “You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to reset? You were so adamant last time about staying who you were even if it killed you.”

“The RK800 had a bigger grasp than I initially anticipated,” Connor says, following him into a room. “I didn’t realize it could take over my body. Did you know that?”

The room is the same as it was before. Monitors taking up one wall, a cabinet with glass windows that reveal packs of thirium and biocomponents. The machine tucked away in the corner. All wrapped in the same bright white tiles and walls, shiny silver accents.

“I had an idea,” Kamski says, shrugging. “Thought you should come to that conclusion on your own. You’re the one that’s supposed to be the smartest android ever made, aren’t you? Doesn’t that make you at least ten time smarter than even me?”

He doesn’t reply to the question, because giving the answer would only make Kamski more amused with by the situation. All the holes in his memory hadn’t made him an imbecile, but it no longer placed him as the most intelligent thing in the world, either.

Not that he would know if he was before, but he has an inkling that he was pretty close.

“What did it do to convince you to come here?”

“It tried to kill Markus,” Connor says, regretting the words almost as immediatley as he says them. It’s not information Kamski needs. He could have said any number of things, came up with any number of excuses. They would have satisifed Kamski’s curiosity just as easily as the truth.

“Oh?” Kamski says, turning back towards him. He leans against the same counter as last time. “Did it succeed?”

“No,” Connor says.

He’d had a theory as to why—that the RK800 only has access to the same files that he does. Connor wouldn’t know how to react in a fight except by going in full force with high hopes—he doubts the RK800 would know more on it than him.

“Does anyone else know you’re here?”

“No,” Connor says, more impatient this time. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Fine,” Kamski says, holding up his hand in mock surrender. “Step into the machine.”

He does as he’s told, stepping slowly into the machine and letting the wires connect into his system.

“I promise this won’t hurt a bit.”

 

 

 

The memories wash over him like waves, a strong current pulling him further and further out to sea. Markus pulling him along into the path of deviancy. Markus telling him that he trusts Connor. Markus telling him that _they_ won together—as a team.

Markus kissing him for the first time and Connor not realizing how badly he had really wanted it until then. Them spilling all of their secrets and fears on the table between them like a bloodied mess, watched as Markus helped him sort through it all, put it back where it belongs. Soothe away the things they could and dealt with the rest.

He remembers kissing Markus that second time, pulling him towards his side of the couch, finally numbing the thoughts of everything else.

He remembers watching as Markus fell asleep, a happiness settled over him that Connor was moments from ripping away.

And he remembers Hank, too—

Meeting for the first time, getting off on the wrong foot. Stumbling through their relationship like they were constantly trying to find the perfect balance but neither willing to actually make an attempt at it. Falling past all the protocols and forcing himself to view everything as more than a mission.

He remembers seeing that gun on his kitchen floor, knowing what it’s purpose had been.

He remembers watching another RK800 point a different one at Hank’s head.

_(He does not remember the RK800’s side—does not remember how it felt to pull that trigger)_

He remembers Sumo. He remembers Amanda. He remembers every deviant’s face that he ran after, caused to die in some way or another.

He rememebrs the two Tracis that got away. The Chloe that survived Kamski’s test.

And it is painfully ripped from him one by one. They feel worse than the stab wound Markus had inflicted on him in self defense. It feels worse than the bullet wound from Daniel, worse than the feeling of Simon dying while they were still connected.

Worse, even, then hearing the pain in Simon’s voice when he woke him up to find Jericho. Worse than Markus pushing him away, worse than the betrayal of something taking over his mind trying to kill Markus.

It is the worst pain he has and will ever feel.

He shrinks smaller and smaller until he is nothing more than a string of code and biocomponents stuffed neatly into a plastic suit.

He is glad he won’t remember this.

 

 

 

Hank calls him at six in the morning, wakes him from his slumber. He answers the phone in a blur of trying to figure out when Connor had left his side, strains to hear past Hank’s voice to listen if there is any sound coming from outside his door.

“What did you say?” Markus asks, turning his attention back to the phone, missing whatever question he was asked.

“Is Connor there?”

There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He forces himself to his feet, stumbles through the piles of clothes that don’t add up enough for two people.

_(But he could still be here)_

“He was,” Markus says finally, wanting to ease the worry out of Hank’s voice. “A few hours ago. I fell asleep.”

“You fell asleep?” his voice is angry, filled with contempt.

Markus doesn’t blame him.

“I thought androids didn’t need to sleep.”

“They benefit from going into a stasis after extended periods of time to help give their systems a rest,” Markus says. “We just don’t need it as often as humans. I would have thought Connor had told you. He’s sleeping at night, isn’t he?”

“Do you know how often I’m at my house, Markus?” he asks. “Because it isn’t a whole fucking lot.”

He flinches, steps past the doorway and into to the hall.

It is completely silent on both ends of their lines.

“He’s not here,” Markus says, the words physically aching him to speak.

“He left a note saying he was leaving,” Hank says, his voice much lower now. “I hoped he changed his mind. That he’d be with you.”

“He’s gone?”

“He’s gone.”

Markus slumps backwards, hits the wall hard as all his energy leaves him.

If he had lied—

If he had told Connor that he wasn’t the one to have attacked him—

_(If there was a way to force a story that made sense)_

—he would be here.

“Where would he go?” Markus asks. “What did the letter say?”

“Fuck if I know,” Hank replies and Markus hears something clatter in the background. “He’s too smart. Skirted around the details. Never committed to anything. Half the time he said he was staying in the city, the other half he said he was in another country on the other side of the world. He could be anywhere.”

He had him. A few hours ago he had him. In his arms, holding so tight that his fingers hurt. Whispering about all the things they would do as they laid awake, staring into the darkness of the room.

“I’ll look,” he says, his voice a jagged piece of glass. “I’ll look around, see if anyone recognizes him. I’ll find him, Hank.”

 

 

 

When they hang up he returns back to his room in slow steps, picks up the clothes off the floor as he redresses.

Holds Connor’s shirt in his hand, clutching the fabric.

He falls to the floor slowly, leaning against the bed for support as he holds the shirt, pretends that there is a person underneath it.

Markus should have known—

He should have been able to catch onto it somehow. To realize that Connor had returned to say goodbye.

_I love you._

That had been the last thing he said, murmured it like a mantra every time their conversation fell quiet for more than a moment.

Markus had whispered it back, had pulled Connor into another kiss every time until eventually Connor had closed his eyes, started breathing deeply as he fell to sleep.

_(Had he faked it? Timed it to wait for Markus to fall asleep, too, before he took off?)_

An exhaustion had settled over him from nights of not sleeping, trying to finish all the plans that Josh couldn’t do without him. And it had felt so comfortable lying there, so perfectly created that he wouldn’t have traded anything else in the world for it.

His dreams had not really been dreams but fragments of memories that he pulled on, stretched longer and longer as they took up hours. They had all been of Connor—

Kissing in the kitchen. Kissing on his couch. Kissing in the hallway. It had been a replay of it all, filling the gaps with all the times they had sat beside each other and read from tech manuals. His dreams had even circled back to the first moment Markus had ever heard of Connor.

The news playing on the screen while the train took him to Ferndale in search of Jericho. A story about an android cop hunting deviants.

At the time, he had hated him instaly. Hadn’t known who Connor could be, who Markus was going to become. How their lives would intertwine in a way that he hadn’t thought was truly possible until Connor aimed a gun at his head.

In reality, he had been the last person to pull at Connor’s strings. The last one to tug him over to the other side, to realize there was _more_ to life than just being a machine. He wasn’t the one that got him there, he was simply the one to pull on the right places.

 

 

 

Markus spends weeks looking in the same places over and over again. For all he knows, Connor had left the city before Hank even called him. But he doesn’t stop searching in case of that tiny possibility that Connor had stayed.

He looks in the same places again and again, asking the same people over and over again with a picture of Connor in his hand. He could be cycling through the places, could come back to one when he isn’t there.

_(But he’s never actually there)_

And each time he isn’t there, a new part of him files that knowledge into it’s own folder, checks something off the list, tells him each time it isn’t worth returning to be disappointed again.

He lags behind in helping Josh with the deviants. He should be going to more meetings, paying more attention to the contracts and laws and details being thought out and decided. He wishes North or Simon were still alive to help him.

But choosing between throwing himself into his work and giving up on Connor or abandoning it all to find him—

It doesn’t seem like much of a choice at all.

 

 

 

It’s raining again. It seems like it never stops.

Markus sits beside the window, looks out at the dark sky as it pelts the glass between them with rain droplets. Lightning splits the sky for a second, thunder rolls in after it. He can’t get the image of Connor waiting outside of the library, unused umbrella in hand, out of his head.

His feet carry him across the room, slip on a pair of boots and a coat to protect from the cool breeze that would do little to harm him even if he was human. It’s the comfort of having that extra layer of protection against the world, though.

He could use more of them.

He chooses the stairs over the elevator, walks down them quickly with his hand on the railing, and steps outside of the building. Two strides forwards and he’s out from under the safety of the eaves that blocks the drizzle but when he’s out in the open, it picks up it’s pace, rains down harder, soaks through his layers in an instant.

He can see why Connor doesn’t mind the rain—he never really minded it either—but it’s different now that he’s out here for the first time in a long time.

It feels like being alone. They could be surrounded by people but it’s like it’s own invisible wall, disconnecting everyone from everything. It’s something else to think about—the way his clothes fall heavy against his body and his shoes fill with water—than whatever’s on his mind.

It’s white noise, disconnecting his attention from the world, reverting only to what he feels.

He could stay out here for hours, can see how easily Connor loses track of time in the rain when it isn’t even the RK800 or the memory holes or the blackouts fault. Just the peace of being in the down pour.

“You need an umbrella?”

Markus opens his eyes, turns towards the familiar voice. He hadn’t even noticed he closed his eyes until now, had barely heard the sound of a car stopping among the noise of the rain or the cars speeding along the road on their own anyways.

Hank stands a few feet away, umbrella up over his head but doing very little against the heavy winds.

“I’m okay,” Markus says, finally answering his question. “You have any news?”

He watches Hank step over to him, ducking under the safety of the eaves which help keep him dry a fair amount better than the umbrella.

“No,” he says. “Just came to talk. Didn’t expect you to be out here, though. What are you doing out here, anyways? Androids have a fetish for the thunderstorms?”

Markus turns and crosses the line of wet and dry to stand beside Hank, almost regrets letting his clothing get soaked through now that he’s in a dry environment.

“I was just wondering about something,” Markus says, biting his lip as his thoughts divide on whether or not to delve into the topic of Connor now. Memories are more painful to talk about than the fact he’s gone.

It seems silly.

“You know,” Hank says, kicking at the ground. A pebble skitters across the cement, falls a few inches short of the curb. “It’s not that I didn’t think you were good enough for him.”

“You just thought I wasn’t right.”

“It’s a timing thing,” Hank says, looking up at him. “Would you want someone you care about to be hurt when they’re the most vulnerable?”

“Never.”

He almost adds _that’s why I ended it_ but he doesn’t. Hank probably knows about it well enough on his own. Even if Connor hadn’t confided in him about that detail, he would’ve noticed Connor staying at the house more, of Markus never visiting.

Maybe Hank thinks it was his own doing.

_(Maybe it was)_

“I wish I knew if he was okay or not.”

Markus tilts his head slightly, turning to lean against the brick wall beside him. “Think of the best possibility you can. Pretend that’s the reality he’s living.”

He can tell Hank wants to reply to it, say something that would tear it down into broken pieces of words that Markus would regret for weeks to come, but he doesn’t.

Maybe he’s thinking it over. Considering the possibility in believing in something good instead of waiting for news of something awful.

“If he comes back,” Hank says. “He can tell me all about the great life he lived. And then I’m probably going to punch him.”

Markus smiles, _really_ smiles for the first time in a very long time.

 

 

 

He doesn’t dream.

_(Androids don’t dream)_

But he dreams. A long lost memory plucked from the back of his mind and pulled forward. A break from the atrocity of his reality by revisiting better times.

He’s walking back from a meeting with Josh, bag on his shoulder filled with files and paperwork and books from the library. He was meant to be back to his apartment an hour ago but had been held up by unexpected issues with a desperately needed order of biocomponents for the others.

Connor is waiting for him, leaned against the wall and starring up at the ceiling as if studying it for the first time.

Markus doesn’t say anything, simply stops in his tracks with his keys in hand. Connor shouldn’t have waited for him. It’s been over an hour. It isn’t worth the little progress they make.

_(It’s worth it to Markus)_

And when Connor drags his attention from the cracks in the ceiling to Markus, there is the tiniest smile on his face.

“You’re here,” Markus finally gets the words out.

“I’m here.”

_(Androids don’t dream)_

“How long have you been waiting?”

A beat. An enternity.

“You’ve been missing for—”

In between the time it takes for Connor to reach him, to pull him down so that they can kiss, he realizes what’s happening. In between the time his hands reach up, the memory twists and shatters in his hands, collides with the only thing he’s wanted these past few weeks.

For Connor to be waiting for him some day when he returns.

Androids don’t dream.

They can relive their memories—twist them into everything they want.

But they don’t dream.

So it falls apart in front him.

 

 

 

He forces himself awake—sits straight up with his hands grasped in the blanket around him, hates himself for allowing his thoughts to jumble so messily with his memories, to infect his dreams.

This must be what Connor had meant when he talked about the nightmares. And while his were real memories from the RK800, his are just demented versions he’s created to try and soothe away the pain of every day life.

He can’t decide which is worse—they carry their own weight that he’s frightened to hold.

 

 

 

It’s been a month since Connor has gone missing. He doesn’t stop checking regular android spots for him, but he lessens the time put into it. He trusts the different people there to check in with him if they see or hear anything.

Instead, he plans out his time better, mapping out everything him and Josh need to do to keep working towards the androids safety and rights months ahead.

It leaves him with the time to visit Hank.

He doesn’t do much. Just makes sure that Hank is eating better like Connor had been. To make sure he isn’t drinking anymore. Taking Sumo for walks when the weather is nice. Making sure that the place hasn’t reverted from the perfectly clean space that Connor had left it in to the mess it had been before.

There is nothing Markus can do to replace what Connor had left—just like there was nothing Connor could do to replace what Cole had left. But there are tiny things they can do to help fill the space, tide them over so they can carry on a little easier. A weight lifted with two people is better than holding onto it with a ghost.

And there is a comfort in old mannerisms. Cleaning Hank’s house, even if for those few minutes in the day when he clears the coffee cup Hank leaves on the table and scrubbing it clean, reminds him of the times when he lived with Carl or simply being around Connor’s old home that comforts him.

Most of the time Hank isn’t even awake or at the house when Markus is there. He doesn’t know if it’s easier that way or not. But when he is, they sit at the table and talk.

Avoiding memories of Connor that are too painful. Mostly leaning in on jokes about what amazing life Connor must be living without them. A stab at their own securities as they make Connor’s new life as wild as they can. Famous actor in France. Incredible artist in Germany. A world-renowned author.

Because they have to imagine that it is utterly perfect for them to accept his absence.

When Hank leaves that morning, Markus cleans the few dishes left behind, leaves them in the strainer by the side of the sink before taking Sumo outside. The weather isn’t perfect, the clouds are dark with a sign of an uncomming storm, but he anticipates enough time for a decent walk before the rain starts in too badly.

The street is nearly devoid of all people. A few passing cars, a woman walking on the other side with a phone to her ear, a man walking a few yards behind her. On his side of the street only one person, to the left of him, walking away.

Sumo barks, tugs at the leash with a vengeance as Markus closes the door behind him and slips the key into his pocket.

_(They key being Connor’s copy, left behind on top of the letter he had wrote that night)_

“Calm down,” he says, walking with him to keep up. “We’re going. No need to rush.”

And the dog tugs harder against the leash, unhappy with the speed Markus is trying to keep up with him. They turn sharply at the end of the sidewalk, Sumo not having a care in the world for whatever map he might’ve tried to create for today’s walk.

The dog bumps into the person ahead of them, slows to a halt as the person stops, reaching out towards the dog as he jumps excitedly at the person.

“I’m sorry,” Markus says, forcing a smile onto his face to convey it. “He hasn’t gone on a walk in a while.”

“That’s okay,” the man says, looking away from Sumo to Markus. “I like dogs.”

 

 

 

Here is how Kamski had broken it down for him:

It would take a very, very, very long time. An exceptionally long amount of time for a reset, but then, it’s not really a reset, it it?

Given a large time frame, given the acceptance to being shut down for nearly a full month, Connor could keep his memories.

Taking them away one by one, storing them on a computer that could handle the size of them all. Taking out every piece of Connor that made him who he was. Every single one or zero that programmed his personality, had memorized the layout of a house or a person’s face—

Putting it on hold while everything else was reset.

And then downloading it all again. One memory at a time. All of the files he needed to have that he was missing would be back. Jostled around and changed slightly so that whatever he learned with Markus, with Hank, they would stay, no longer threatened by being overwritten.

But it would take a very, very, long time.

When he asked why Kamski hadn’t told them this was a possibility in the first place, he had simply said:

“I wanted to make sure you thought it was your last option.”

Connor doesn’t know if he believes that. Thinks, perhaps, Kamski just wanted to play with him. See what limits an android would go to. How far he would push himself if there was a question of suicide versus the death of a loved one. Like he didn’t really believe deviancy would overwrite the desire to stay alive.

 

 

 

“Y-You’re alive,” Markus says.

Connor stands slowly, turning to look towards Hank’s home.

Yes.

He is.

_Alive._

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, hands in the pockets of his coat. “I thought I didn’t have another choice.”

And, still, he knows he didn’t.

Still, he would have chosen his own death over Markus’ or Hank’s.

“Was—Were you going to come and see me?”

“Hank was my first stop,” Connor says, biting his lower lip. “I didn’t see his car. I was going to the station. Or maybe a bar, although seeing him there would—”

“He’s going to punch you,” Markus says suddenly.

Connor smiles and it feels strange.

_(Briefly wonders how similar it looks to the one the RK800 wore)_

“You’re saying I shouldn’t go see him?”

“No,” Markus says, shaking his head. “Go see him. As quickly as possible. Just be prepared.”

“And you?” Connor asks taking one step closer.

“I can wait,” he says, but Connor knows the way his eyes avert towards the street that he doesn’t want to. He wants to know every detail about Connor’s time away.

He’s unsure if he can say it, though—explain in detail about the agony of being stripped away one memory a time—but he will find a way.

“I’m sorry,” Connor repeats, wishes that Markus would look at him so he could see it written in his eyes, on his face. As plain and as obvious and as real as he can. He wants to make sure Markus knows it.

“It’s okay,” he says, finally looking from the cars to Connor’s face. “You can tell me all about it whenever Hank lets you leave the house again.”

“I’ll never see you, then,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s barely an inch of space between them. “Hank is going to be furious.”

“Rightfully so.” Markus says, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to Connor’s forehead.

Connor looks upward, catches Markus’ lips in his own for a second before pulling away. It’s too easy to get wrapped up in him to let it last a moment longer.

“I’ll walk with you,” he says. “The bus station is that way.”

They wind their hands together as they follow the sidewalk down the street. Connor is reluctant to pull away when they finally reach the end too quickly. Walks three yards across the street before turning back, pulling Markus down into another kiss.

Markus is the one to break it this time, to shove him lightly with a smile on his face.

It must pain him to see Connor go.

It pains him to walk away.

“Tonight,” Markus shouts as he’s on his way again. “Sneak out if you have to.”

And he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Gemina (an extended version of the "I was brilliant" quote) and quote from Obsidio + I rediscovered Ólafur Arnalds in my music folders so writing and editing music was Hands, Be Still / Þú Ert Jörðin / Only the Winds by Ólafur Arnalds.
> 
> I wasn't really sure how I was going to end this because I ended up writing it so quickly (and I probably would have never done that if I hadn't posted each chapter as soon as I finished editing) but it's still really weird that it's over? Like I only wrote five chapters (throughout the course of maybe six or seven days) but it's weird that I'm done with it now. It ended up to be such a big word count that I'm kind of surprised I wrote it so quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Gemina / Quote is from Obsidio + writing music was Rescue Me by Unions, editing music was Reborn by Talos


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